


Cadent and Cadenzas

by MythicalTzu



Category: Twosetviolin, Video Blogging RPF, twoset violin
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Concertmaster!Brett, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Slow Burn, Soft Boys, Strangers to Friends, but it does get better, many tears, past trauma, street musician!Eddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29803761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MythicalTzu/pseuds/MythicalTzu
Summary: Brett has everything he ever thought he wanted: a prestigious job with an orchestra, the admiration of his peers, loving friends, his own apartment. Then he meets Eddy, a struggling street musician, and suddenly he’s no longer certain about anything.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 28
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

He might be losing it, Brett reflects as he walks to rehearsal. Countless hours spent alone in the single-minded pursuit of perfecting his craft may have finally driven him out of his mind because for the second time this week, he could swear he hears someone playing the violin with extraordinary skill and beauty.

He supposes it was only a matter of time before a life devoted entirely to his instrument drove him mad. Brett consoles himself that as far as imaginary music goes, at least this is nothing to complain about. Such perfect intonation, such unique phrasing, and flawless vibrato as well?

Brett laughs, mindless of the odd looks he draws from a cluster of passing pedestrians. What does it matter if strangers think he’s crazy if he’s genuinely losing his marbles? But if the music is coming from inside his head, it’s odd that it begins to fade as he passes the end of the block. He pauses, wondering if he should circle back and see what he missed. Could there really be a random busker playing at that level alone on the street?

He comes to a complete stop, indecisive, but then his phone chimes for attention. He fishes it from his pocket and spurs himself back into motion as he notes the time. He’s on the edge of being late, and by “late” he means less than half an hour early, but still. He dismisses the message, shoves his phone away and rushes so he can arrive at the concert hall before the rest of his section.

—

He’s almost forgotten about the incident when it happens again the following week. This time, it’s only a few notes ringing through the air but they’re enough to stop him in his tracks, his heart beating double-time. How could he have forgotten about this mystery? 

Oh, yeah. Hours and hours and hours of practice, rehearsal, assisting other violinists, and spending his scant free time with other musicians. He’s still a touch concerned that he’s losing touch with reality, but not concerned enough to make himself late. People are waiting for him, counting on him. He doesn’t have time to indulge his curiosity.

Days later he’s walking the same path with his friend Vincent, listening to judgments on everything from their co-workers to dead composers to the conductor when he hears it again. That striking musicality, the impressive dynamics, and every note played in tune — it’s so good it can’t possibly be real.

He comes to a dead stop on the sidewalk and grabs Vincent’s sleeve. 

“Do you hear that?” he asks, looking around wildly. “Please tell me you hear that.”

“Hear what?” Vincent frowns, clearly displeased at being halted on a busy sidewalk. “A siren?” After another beat, he tips his head, frown deepening. “Oh, yeah, that. A busker. Good work, nice sound, come on, we need to hurry.”

“I really wanna see who’s playing,” Brett says, peering about even as Vincent spurs him back into motion. “Do you think we could…?”

“Not if we don’t want to be late,” Vincent replies airily. “So anyhow. As I was saying. The whole problem with the strings section is really that…” 

Brett continues to strain his ears until he loses track of the music and when he does, a surprising wave of sadness washes over him. Even if he can’t find the musician, he wishes he could have lingered and listened longer.

—

He departs for the next day’s rehearsal earlier than usual, forgoing part of his early practice session in his determination to locate the busker whose music has haunted his dreams. He moves slowly, listening carefully, but as he traces his usual route he hears nothing but the sounds of traffic and disjointed conversations. He loops back, this time walking down unfamiliar streets and peering into alleyways. He’s nearly decided to give up and head directly to rehearsal when he hears it:

A pure, sweet note that ripples through the air, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and sending shivers down his back. He hurries his steps, attempting to orient himself in the right direction but it’s not as easy as it should be. The music seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, filling his ears but slipping free his grasp. 

After turning a final corner, he enters a sheltered alcove where he’s greeted by a surprising sight. The man playing with such virtuosity looks very young, perhaps still in his teens. As he moves closer, Brett’s eyes skip from worn shoes to shabby clothes before fixing on his violin. It’s nothing special, nothing that seems capable of producing such beauty, but clearly cherished and well cared for.

The same certainly couldn’t be said for the musician himself, he thinks as he moves to within a few feet of the performer. On closer inspection, his clothes look not just worn but actually dirty, as does his hair. His glasses are smudged, his cheeks are hollow, and his skin is a mess of acne. Brett winces, inexplicably embarrassed. Still, he can’t bring himself to walk away. He lingers awkwardly as he listens to an impressive rendition of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9.

When the piece concludes he opens his mouth to offer praise, but the man has already dropped to his knees to pack away his instrument.

Brett notes the contents of his case — a few crumpled bills, a handful of coins — and winces again.

“That was really,” he begins, but the musician already has his case over his shoulder and is walking away with intentional speed.

—

It troubles him.

All of it.

Did he come across like some sort of creep? It’s possible. He should have brought some coins; a donation would have been a lot more welcome than whatever he was going to say. It’s also possible he was wearing the wrong expression. He’s been told that his face sometimes goes oddly blank, especially when he’s feeling intensely about something and processing it internally.

Then there’s the fact that such a talented musician is in such a state to begin with, playing on the streets for coins. 

“I don’t understand it,” he tells Vincent for the third time, much to his friend’s irritation. “Why is someone so talented, with so much training, playing on the street? He should be at a conservatory. Or with a youth philharmonic.” 

“A cautionary tale for all aspiring musicians,” Vincent replies with a theatrical sigh. “If you want to play classical music for a living, you’d best be wealthy or as talented as Brett Yang, or you’re likely to wind up starving on a street corner somewhere.”

The violin player’s circumstances have nothing to do with him and are none of his business, but Brett can’t help being upset. “It shouldn’t be like that,” he says, earning himself a curious look from Vincent, who had returned to their previous conversation without missing a beat.

“Maybe not,” Vincent agrees with a shrug. “But that’s how the world works. Best to accept it and go on with your life, yeah? Anyhow, I was telling you about an absolutely absurd conversation I had with Jessica. Can you believe she actually said—”

Brett goes back to pondering what the life of a street violinist must be like. Surely he made more money than what Brett spotted in his case? Were people really so stingy? Hopefully the musician has other sources of income. Brett isn’t sure it’s possible to survive off the generosity of others.

The next few days are busy with performances and post-performance gatherings with his fellow orchestra musicians and he doesn’t have a chance to investigate further until the next week. But as soon as he’s able, he stuffs some money into his pockets and leaves his apartment early. 

At first, he’s disappointed to hear and see nothing, but after pausing to buy coffee and sitting on a bench while sipping it, a string of familiar notes reach his ears.

He jumps to his feet so quickly that coffee sloshes on his shirt. Swearing, he makes a futile attempt to wipe it off as he hurries after the music. It turns out he needn’t have worried; the violinist is exactly where he was before. Brett stands further back this time, listening with his eyes closed and his hands clasped. The performance is even better today, pure and sweet, measured and emotional. Brett waits until the piece concludes before stepping forward and dropping a handful of coins into the open case. 

Standing this close, he’s able to get a better look at the violinist. The man is older than he first guessed, probably in his early 20s, maybe even close to Brett’s age. Dark circles underscore eyes that watch him with a guarded expression. Could he be an addict, busking to fund an addiction? The idea is dismissed almost instantly; no one wrestling with such a demon could play like this and besides, there’s far easier ways to score a few dollars.

“Hi there,” Brett says, his voice soft. “That was very, very good. Excellent, even.”

The man blushes and drops his eyes to the sidewalk, his feet shuffling uneasily. “Thanks,” he says after a beat or two. 

“I’m Brett.”

“Oh.” The man frowns and keeps his gaze locked downward. 

“And you are…?”

There’s a long pause and he refuses to look up, but eventually he speaks again. “Eddy.” 

It’s more of a mutter than an introduction, but Brett is pleased to make a little progress. “Nice to meet you, Eddy,” Brett says replies. “You play beautifully.”

“Oh.” Eddy fidgets with his bow, frowning. “I mean, thanks.”

“You make good tips playing here?”

Eddy looks up at last, his expression unreadable. “I guess,” he says. “I mean, sometimes. Some days are better than others. I do best on the weekends, at night, but I don’t like being out here alone in the dark.”

“No,” Brett says, feeling his mouth turning downward. “I imagine that isn’t very safe.” And with that, he’s run out of natural conversation topics for conversing with a street performer, in spite of the fact that he’s learned almost nothing and wants to know everything. “Say,” he finds himself adding before he’s thought it out. “You want to get some lunch or something? Uh, my treat.”

There’s not much space behind him, but somehow Eddy manages to back away. “Listen,” he says, unease clear in his voice and expression. “I just play violin. I’m not, I don’t…”

Brett feels his face turn hot as he realizes what Eddy is thinking. “No no no no,” he says, holding out both hands palms-up. “I’m not, it’s not… I mean, I’m also a violinist. I just wanted to talk to you about violin, and music, and… that sort of thing.”

Eddy looks unconvinced, but his eyes have stopped darting about as if in search of an escape route.

Brett backs up, horrified by the look on the young man’s face and wondering exactly how difficult his life is. He’s about to open his mouth and apologize again when Eddy scoops up his violin case and, without even bothering to remove the money or even put his instrument away, darts off.


	2. Chapter 2

“That was a disaster,” Brett tells his long-time friend Madeline while slumped over a mostly untouched cup of coffee. “And the more I think about it, the worse it gets.”

“Aw, Brett,” she says, giving him a rueful smile. “I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as bad as you’re thinking. You’re too hard on yourself and besides — how could you have known what would trigger him? It’s not like you’re well-versed on what street performers go through.”

“I came across like a creep looking to take advantage,” he says with a sigh. “And that’s _after_ I tossed money at him like that entitled me to his time and conversation. What’s wrong with me?”

“Absolutely nothing. Drink your coffee.” She nudges it towards his hand and waits until he’s had a few sips before speaking again. “Why’re you so interested in this guy, anyhow? Aren’t you busy enough without taking on a new project?”

Brett makes a face and looks away. “It’s not like that. And you’d understand if you heard him. He’s incredible. There’s just something about his playing… it’s hard to put it into words.” He shakes his head. “I sound dumb, don’t I.”

Madeline sighs. “No,” she insists. “And if you want my advice, I think you should back away for a few days. Maybe even a few weeks. I don’t think you did anything wrong, but it definitely sounds like you scared him, and the best remedy for that is distance.”

Brett sighs in return. “You’re right,” he agrees unhappily. “I need the time for practice anyway.”

“Practice,” she says. “And more evenings out with me and Vincent. Forget about this guy and focus on your own life.”

—

He does his best to follow her advice, because Madeline has rarely steered him wrong. He stops leaving his apartment early, focuses on completing full practice sessions and definitely does not consider wandering out in the evening to see if Eddy is playing beneath a streetlight, trading his talent for a smattering of coins. He even takes a different route into work the following week, wearing his earphones to block out any traces of Eddy’s music. No use pitting himself against temptation.

By the third week, Brett figures he’s moved on. There’s other things to worry about, other fascinations that catch his ears and eyes, and his friends dominate any free hours remaining once rehearsals, practice, and performances are complete. He even returns to his usual route, which is a relief because it’s the most direct way and it takes him past his favorite coffee shop.

Acting on impulse, he drops by the café on his way home at the end of the week. He’s intent on getting a bubble tea or coffee or maybe both to facilitate another practice session when he spots something that stops him dead in his tracks.

Not something. Some _one_.

It’s Eddy, seated at a table alone, his hands wrapped around a nearly empty plastic cup, his eyes fixed on the window.

Brett knows he should continue to the counter, place his order and go home, but his feet refuse to obey. After a moment of deliberation, he turns and walks to Eddy’s table, careful to approach slowly with an open expression.

Eddy doesn’t immediately notice him, so Brett clears his throat.

It takes a moment of blinking reorientation before Eddy’s eyes are on him, first with confusion and then, slowly, recognition. “Brett,” he says, like he’s remembered the answer to a question on a quiz. 

“That’s me,” Brett replies with a warm smile. “Mind some company?”

Again, Eddy seems hesitant. His eyes dart from Brett to the door and back again, and Brett’s smile goes unreturned. 

Brett doesn’t let it discourage him. He knows he can be charming, and he’s determined to put his charisma to good use here. “I’m harmless,” he says. “I swear it. And look.” He pulls his violin case around to the front of his body. “I really am a violinist, just like I said.”

Eddy eyes the case for longer than Brett expected before giving a nod. “I guess you are. I doubt you’d go to all the trouble of buying a prop just to score a seat at my table.”

“Right,” Brett agrees. “That’s way too much work and I’m far too lazy. So what do you say?”

Eddy hesitates for a few more seconds before motioning toward the space across from him. “Go ahead,” he says, “…but I’m almost done with my tea.”

“Yeah?” Brett drops his things into the seat and eyes the plastic cup. “Well, I’m just about to place my order, so I’ll get you another. What’s your poison?”

The hesitation is so long this time that Brett worries he fucked up again, but eventually Eddy gives a tiny shrug. “Brown sugar bubble tea. But you don’t have to. I can just drink water.”

“Brown sugar, huh? That sounds good. I usually drink it plain, but maybe I’ll try something new.” 

He makes his way to the counter and places an order for two brown sugar bubble teas, two sandwiches, and — after a moment of hesitation — a fruit salad. After taking care of the bill, he turns back towards the table, his heart rate spiking. Did he really just walk away from his violin, leaving it with a complete stranger?

He truly must be losing his mind.

But Eddy is right where he left him, and so are Brett’s things. Breathing a sigh of relief, he slides into his seat with a smile that feels only slightly strained. “Hope you don’t mind that I ordered some food, too,” he says. “I don’t have much to eat at my place.”

Eddy shrugs. “That’s fine,” he says, finishing off the last of his tea before speaking again. “So um. How long have you been playing violin?”

“Since I was five,” Brett replies, happy to be on his favorite topic. “How about you?”

“I was really young too,” Eddy says, eyes studying the table. “Piano at five, and violin a year later, and then music sort of took over my life and never let go.”

“I bet your parents rue the day they started your lessons,” Brett begins, but quickly shifts away from the standard joke when Eddy flinches. “I started piano at nine,” he says instead. “Shortly after we immigrated here from Taiwan.”

Suddenly Eddy’s eyes are on his face and his mouth drops open. It’s such a significant reaction that Brett worries he’s somehow managed to fuck up yet _again_ when Eddy starts talking in Chinese. “That’s an amazing coincidence.”

“No way.” Brett presses both hands against the edge of the table and stares at him.

“Way,” Eddy says, switching back to English with a hint of a cheeky smile. “My parents immigrated when I was about the same age. Say something in Chinese for me.”

Brett complies, grinning. “I’m starting to think we might be the same person,” he says in their native language. “Is it possible we were separated at birth?”

Eddy seems about to reply when a server arrives with their order. He stares downward in amazement as the table fills with bubble tea, sandwiches, crisps, and fruit. “Oh,” he says, eyes wide behind his smudged glasses.

Brett pushes Eddy’s plate towards him and reaches for his bubble tea. “This is really good,” he says after a sip that he doesn’t really taste. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

Eddy sits and stares at his food. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice distant and flat again as he returns to English. “But I don’t have any more money.” He sounds so distressed by the admission that Brett feels his heart contract. 

Brett keeps his tone light. “Like I said, it’s my treat. Please don’t force me to eat all of this; I’d definitely make myself sick.” He focuses on his own plate, hoping that will encourage Eddy to start eating. It seems to work, before after another moment of hesitation Eddy lifts his sandwich and takes a slow, careful bite.

When Brett looks up a few minutes later, half the sandwich and most of the chips have vanished. He barely manages three bites in the time it takes Eddy to polish off the rest, and with his free hand he nudges the fruit salad across the table. He really wants to know how long it’s been since Eddy has eaten, but he couldn’t possibly embarrass him by asking. Instead he drinks his tea (which is just as good as advertised) and does his best not to stare.

“Here,” he says, passing Eddy the other half of his sandwich. “I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”

Eddy’s eyes flicker at the obvious lie but he gratefully accepts the extra food, eating the rest with slower, more intentional bites. “Sorry,” he says when he finishes. “I don’t usually eat that fast.”

“It’s okay.” Brett keeps his expression neutral. “So what sort of violin do you play?”

The conversation flows easily between them as they discuss instruments, favorite pieces, admired composers, and preferred arrangements. Eddy relaxes bit by bit, occasionally smiling and even laughing at one of Brett’s terrible jokes. The sound warms Brett down to his core and the longer they talk, the more intently he finds himself studying Eddy. In spite of his unwashed hair and acne, he’s both cute and charismatic. Even his slightly crooked, unbraced teeth appeal to him on a level he can’t quite pinpoint.

He really can’t imagine how someone so attractive, talented, and obviously smart has wound up in such a difficult situation and no matter how he turns it over in his head, he can’t think of a way to politely broach the topic. 

“So,” he says instead, as the café workers start working on their closing routines. “Do you live nearby?”

Eddy’s face instantly closes off. “Sort of,” he says, fidgeting with his straw. 

“I do,” Brett says with deliberate casualness. “Just a few blocks away. It’s nice here, right? I can walk almost everywhere I need to go.”

Eddy nods, his eyes on the table again.

“We should do this again sometime,” Brett continues, shifting approaches and hoping he sounds half as casual as he’s aiming for. “There’s not many people I can talk about classical music and violin with in Chinese.”

“Sure,” Eddy replies, but his voice sounds strained. 

“Let me text you my number,” he says, pulling out his phone, but Eddy is already shaking his head, looking upset again.

“I don’t have a phone right now.” He shifts around in his seat, suddenly unable to find a comfortable position. “I’m getting it replaced soon, but for now I… I don’t.”

“That’s okay.” Brett does his best to play it off like it’s no big deal for someone their age not to own a phone. “I’ll just write it down for you.” He has stray pieces of paper and a pen in his rehearsal bag; he fishes them out and scrawls his full name, phone number, and address. He signs it with a sloppy little treble clef and passes the info over with a smile.

Eddy holds the page in his hand, his eyes scanning several times before he tucks it into a pocket. “You can find me though,” he says. “I’m almost always in the spot I was playing when we met. And if not there, then up on Jenkins and Beldura.”

Where do you live, Brett is dying to ask, but he doesn’t dare. It’s none of your business, he tells himself. And if Eddy has survived this long doing whatever he’s doing, it must be more or less working out for him. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a coughing fit from the other side of the table, and he looks at Eddy with alarm. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Eddy clears his throat and drinks a little more tea with a grimace. “Just a cold I thought I was over, but apparently my lungs don’t wanna cooperate.”

“I could get you some cough drops—”

Eddy shakes his head with a pained smile. “Listen, you’re really nice, but I think I’ve accepted all the charity my pride can handle for one day. And we should probably clear out, hey? They want to close up and go home and I bet you do, too.”

Brett glances down at his watch and is surprised to find that it’s half-past the cafe’s closing time. “I guess we should,” he agrees reluctantly. “Well. Um. Thanks for letting me join your table. This was fun.”

“Thanks for dinner,” Eddy replies, gathering up his things. “See you again, I hope.” With a final half-smile, he zips his jacket and heads out the door. 

Brett follows directly behind him, watching as Eddy walks in the exact opposite direction of his apartment. He’s half-tempted to follow him, but manages to resist the impulse. Getting caught stalking the guy who probably still half-suspects he’s a stalker definitely wouldn’t improve things between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddy's cough is unrelated to Covid-19 -- the pandemic doesn't exist in this universe.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Brett finds his thoughts returning to Eddy constantly. He sets a strict practice schedule for himself and for the most part stays on track, but every few hours he’s struck by intrusive thoughts about the other violinist. How quickly he scarfed down his food. How deftly he avoided revealing anything personal about himself. The sound of a cough that’s settled into his lungs and refuses to let go. How could Brett have just let him walk away when it’s clear he’s suffering?

He’s still beating himself up when he meets Vincent and Madeline for drinks. They’re both in great moods, happy to finally have a weekend off after a long stretch of performances, but Brett’s heart isn’t in it. Fortunately Vincent is more than happy to dominate the conversation, and he's able to fend off Madeline's questioning glances with over-bright smiles. 

“So what do you think of the whole thing, Brett?”

Suddenly Vincent is looking right at him with an expectant expression, and Brett is embarrassed to realize he has no idea what Vincent has been talking about for the last twenty minutes.

“Uh,” he says, covering for himself rather less than brilliantly.

Vincent exchanges a glance with Madeline before fixing him with the full force of his bright blue eyes and aristocratic features. “That’s what I thought,” he says with a long-suffering sigh. “What’s going on with you?”

“I was just thinking about the Élégie in C minor,” Brett replies. It’s not really a lie, he’d had the melody looping through his mind for the better part of an hour, but it’s also not entirely the truth and it’s clear from Vincent’s expression that he knows it.

“If you could just _pretend_ to find me interesting,” he says while flagging down a server with a flicker of his long, elegant fingers. “That would do wonders for my self-esteem.”

“Yeah Brett, you’d best get on that,” Madeline snickers. “Vincent’s opinion of himself might dip down into normal-human range and then who knows what might happen to the foundations of the universe?”

Brett laughs, Vincent rolls his eyes, and the three of them lean in closer around their little table. “I’m sorry,” Brett tells Vincent. “Start over, and I promise you’ll have my undivided attention this time.”

He keeps his promise, but it’s a struggle. He can’t help but wonder what Eddy is doing tonight. Where he’s staying. If he’s hungry. If he’s safe.

— 

His questions are answered Monday afternoon when Brett catches what sounds like a different violinist playing in Eddy’s usual space. He quickens his steps, concerned, because it’s not as if there’s a lot of competition amongst classical violinists in the neighborhood. When he rounds the corner, he’s immediately struck by the change in Eddy’s posture; as he moves closer, Brett sees why he sounds so different.

He’s hunched over, too-long hair falling in his face and almost covering a jagged cut that runs along his cheekbone. To Brett’s horror it’s still bleeding, blood trickling like tears down his cheek. 

“Eddy,” he says, and Eddy immediately stops playing to look at him with dazed eyes.

“Hello,” he says after a brief pause, his voice preternaturally calm. “Got any requests today? I was about to give Salut d'Amour a go, but I could also play Gavotte en Rondeau in E. Or maybe Tzigane. It’s a nice day for Czárdás, don’t you think?”

“No,” Brett replies, keeping his voice even. “I don’t think you should be playing anything. You’re _bleeding_. What happened?”

Eddy transfers his bow into to his left hand and touches his face with his fingertips. He winces when they come away bloody. 

“Oh,” he says. “I thought that had stopped.”

Brett closes the distance between them. He gently takes the violin from Eddy’s unsteady grasp and stows it into the empty case. “Come on,” he says. “Come with me. That cut needs to be cleaned and disinfected before you get an infection.” He wonders if they should go to hospital and have it professionally tended, but he decides not to push his luck. It’s clear from Eddy’s face that he doesn’t want to go anywhere.

“I’m fine, really,” Eddy protests, his voice sounding far away.

“You’re really not. Please, come with me.”

Where his bossy tone failed, his pleading one is more effective. Eddy looks at him with open confusion before lifting his violin case and allowing Bret to guide him along the sidewalk. 

“I’m okay,” Eddy continues in an odd, almost sing-songy voice. “It was just one of those things. It happens. I’ll be okay. Except…” He comes to a stop, frowning. “The lock is broken, and I’m worried someone will steal my things.”

Brett frowns, lost. “What lock?”

“The lock on my car,” Eddy explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Where I keep my things. There’s not much, but I don’t want them stolen. Especially my sheet music; I’d hate to lose my sheet music. There's a lot that I haven't memorized yet.”

“I don’t think there’s many people looking to steal sheet music,” Brett tells him, but his assurances don’t seem to lessen Eddy’s anxiety, so he tries another approach. “We can go get your things after we get you cleaned up, okay? And you can store them at my place until you get your lock fixed.”

His words have the intended effect, and Eddy resumes walking. “I’m okay though, mate. Just a scratch and maybe some bruises. You worry a lot, don’t you?” 

“I do,” Brett replies. “It’s something I’m good at, and why would I stop doing a thing I’ve got a talent for?”

“I’ve said that lots of times,” Eddy says, his voice turning dreamy again. “People mostly just roll their eyes, though.” He’s silent for the rest of the walk to Brett’s apartment, allowing himself to be guided while occasionally tripping over cracks in the sidewalk or his own feet. Brett hovers close, not touching him but ready to intervene if necessary.

They take the lift up to Brett’s third-floor apartment and Eddy leans against the wall while Brett unlocks the door. “This is nice,” Eddy is already saying as he removes his shoes, and Brett would laugh at the apparent auto-trigger of carefully installed manners if he wasn’t so worried about Eddy’s well-being.

“Thanks,” he says, taking Eddy’s violin case and placing it on the table along with his own. “Come on, the bathroom’s this way.” 

Eddy hesitates, his eyes flickering, and Brett takes a step back. 

“Harmless, remember?” he says with a small smile. “But we don’t have to go in there if you don’t want to. I can bring the bandages and things out here and get you cleaned up by the sink.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddy says, running a hand through his messy hair, causing the wavy locks to stand up even more dramatically. “I’d rather stay out here.”

“Of course.” Brett nods towards his kitchen area — fortunately fairly tidy — and hurries to the bathroom to gather his supplies. He returns a few minutes later armed with antiseptic, antibiotic cream, bandages, and the softest cloth in his inventory. “The doctor will see you now,” he says, affecting a silly voice in hopes of making his patient relax a little. It doesn’t appear to work; Eddy’s hands grip his counter with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

Brett prepares the washcloth with warm water. “This is probably gonna sting, but I want to get the area as clean as possible. Can you hold your hair back?”

That seems to be the right approach, because it gives Eddy something useful to do. “Okay,” he says, closing his eyes and bracing himself.

After carefully removing his glasses, Brett starts just below Eddy’s hairline, wiping away dirt, grime, and sweat. It takes a few passes and several rinses of the cloth before he’s satisfied, and when he finishes his work Eddy is blushing.

“I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. “About being so dirty and gross. And dirty and gross in your kitchen, where you cook food and stuff.”

“Not very often,” Brett says with a shrug. “And you don’t have anything to apologize for. Keep holding your hair back; this part might hurt a little more, but I’ll be quick.” He dabs the cut with antiseptic, wincing as Eddy hisses in a breath and squeezes his eyes shut. Brett hurriedly applies ointment and covers it with a patch of gauze and a plaster, which he gives a tiny tap once it’s in place. “There we go,” he says. “All better.”

Eddy continues to lean against the sink with his eyes closed, drawing in slow measured breaths.

“Take all the time you need,” Brett murmurs, picking up his glasses to wash them with the cleaning solution he only uses on his own if they get splattered with grease. By the time he finishes, Eddy seems considerably calmer. Rather than speaking right away, Brett fills a glass with water and locates a bottle of painkillers. “Here,” he says, pressing two of them into Eddy’s hand. “Swallow these.”

Eddy obeys without question, swallowing them in a single gulp before looking to Brett like a child hoping for approval.

“Good job,” Brett supplies. “Okay. Let’s go get your stuff. Do you think it will fit into a laundry basket? I also have a duffel bag.”

Eddy frowns, looking confused again. “Wait, why?”

“So you don’t have to worry about them getting stolen while you’re here. I don’t want you to worry. You need to rest and heal, and worrying is terrible for that. Expert worrier here, remember?”

“So… wait.” Eddy pauses, frowning. “Are you inviting me to stay here tonight?”

“Of course.” Brett returns his frown. “If it’s not safe for your things to be in a car with a broken lock, then it’s not safe for you either. You’re a lot more valuable than sheet music, you know.”

“Well that’s debatable,” Eddy says, still frowning. “Listen, you’re very kind and generous, but you don’t even know me. There’s no reason you should let me stay in your apartment. You probably shouldn’t even have brought me here for this.” He touches his fingers to his bruised and bandaged cheek, wincing again. “Didn’t your parents tell you about stranger danger?”

Brett laughs. “Oh, they definitely did. And no offense, but you’re not exactly in top fighting form right now. I’m pretty sure I could take you if you started acting dodgy.”

That earns him a little smile, there and gone in a flash. “I’m taller,” he protests.

“I noticed.”

“Yeah?” Eddy’s smile returns, morphing briefly into something else before vanishing entirely. “I mean, if you’re sure. I don’t want you to feel like you have to open your home to me because of this. It’s not a big deal. I’ve had a lot worse.”

That information doesn’t reassure Brett nearly as much as Eddy seems to think it will. “I’m sure,” he says firmly. “Give me just a minute.”

It takes him a little time to dump dirty clothes from his laundry basket and locate his duffel bag. When he returns, he finds Eddy waiting by the door, his glasses on his face and his shoes on his feet.

“Look at you,” Brett says. “Ready before me.” 

Eddy blushes again, and Brett smiles as he slips into his sneakers. “How far away are you parked?” he asks while locking the door behind them.

“About four blocks. I move around every day or two so it doesn’t get towed. So far I’ve been lucky.”

“I’m glad,” Brett says. “Getting towed would suck.” He falls silent for the next block or two, not wanting to push his luck, but eventually the quiet starts getting to him. “So, uh, my apartment actually comes with a reserved parking spot.”

“Oh.”

“And I don’t have a car… so what do you say we just stash yours there? That way, you don’t need to worry about moving it around and it’ll be a lot safer in a parking lot than it would be on the street.”

Eddy walks in silence for a few minutes, his face betraying nothing, but eventually he comes to a stop and turns to face Brett. “Why?”

Brett frowns as he peers up at him. “Like I said. I’m paying for the space, and no one is using it so why not—”

“Not just the parking space. Everything. Buying me food, checking up on me, inviting me to stay the night…” He trails away with a pained swallow. “Look, I know how these things go. There’s eventually a price, and I just, I don’t…” The breath he takes sounds like he’s inhaling something painful. “I don’t have anything to offer. Even as nice as you are.”

It takes a moment for the words to fully register. “No, no,” Brett says, sighing. “I swear to you. I’m not some creep hoping that if I’m nice you’ll… owe me. I’m not like that. And if you give me a chance, I’ll prove it.” He lowers his voice and peers up at Eddy beseechingly. “I like you. I think you’re an amazing musician. And we have a lot in common, probably even more than we realize.”

“Yeah?” Hopeful but wary eyes scan his face.

“Yeah. Absolutely. Definitely.” Brett forces a smile. “Besides, like you said, I’m a worrier. If you insist on returning to a car with a broken lock, I swear I’ve never stop worrying and what do you think that will do for my quality of life? Let alone my ability to practice.” 

“Probably nothing good,” Eddy allows, looking away. He continues to stand there for another moment, emotions openly flickering across his expressive face. “Okay then. I wouldn’t want your worries about me to interfere with your practicing and if you think I’m a great violinist then you _definitely_ need to practice more.”

—

It's a short drive back to Brett’s apartment complex but even so, Brett cracks open his window. He hopes Eddy doesn’t notice, but the smell of unwashed clothing and stale air is enough to make his eyes water. Fortunately it only takes a few minutes before they’re parked safely in Brett’s reserved spot and piling his clothes, shoes, books, and sheet music into the laundry basket. There really isn’t much, and they manage to transport all of it in a single trip up the lift.

“Where do you want me to put my things?” Eddy asks once they’re inside. 

“Just drop them anywhere for now,” Brett replies. “I’ll get started running clothes through the washing machine while you take a shower.”

Eddy blushes and drops his gaze to his feet. “I’m really sorry,” he murmurs, but Brett cuts him off.

“It’s not your fault. But you’re going to feel better once you’re clean.” He leads them down the hallway, pausing at the closet to collect a towel, washcloth, and assorted toiletries before matter-of-factly passing the small pile into Eddy’s hands. “Give me a second and I’ll find something for you to change into. Go ahead and kick what you’re wearing out here and I’ll get that washed too.”

He selects a few things from his dresser at random; Eddy might be a little taller, but he’s very thin and Brett has plenty of loose, comfortable things to pick between. He fights back a stab of guilt as he mentally compares Eddy’s meager collection of clothing to his own, but forces himself to stay on task.

He’s expecting Eddy to have entered the bathroom by the time he returns, but finds him still lingering in the hallway. Brett places the stack of clothes on top of what Eddy is already holding and gives a quizzical look. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable? There’s a lock on the door you can use.”

Eddy shakes his head, looking miserable. “No, it’s not that. I’m just wondering…” he glances down the hallway towards the front door. “Would you mind locking that? With the deadbolt, too?”

“Of course,” Brett replies, annoyed with himself for not thinking of it. “And if it makes you feel any better, this is a very safe building. There’s never been any sort of crime here that I know of.”

Eddy nods, but doesn’t look especially reassured.

“I’ll do the locks, and I’ll be right out here in case someone breaches the defenses. I might not look very threatening, but the other violinists in my section assure me I can be terrifying.”

That earns him a tiny smile, there and gone in an instant, but he feels vindicated when Eddy enters the bathroom and closes the door behind him.

He feels even better once the shower begins running.

—

While Eddy showers, Brett starts a load of his clothes and rummages around in the kitchen for potential meals. There isn’t much, but he has enough rice to feed an army and a rice cooker to take care of it for him, so he fires it up while quickly sautéing some vegetables. While they simmer in a bath of canned sauce, he locates his extra linens and folds the futon down into a mattress. By the time he’s put a fresh pillowcase on the spare pillow and adjusted the lighting, he’s feeling like an accomplished host. 

Eddy remains in the shower for a very long time, long enough for Brett to plate up the food, brew some tea, and put on some music. When he finally emerges, he looks very clean and far more comfortable, even while wearing someone else’s clothes.

“Thank you,” Eddy says sincerely. “That helped a lot. I feel human again.”

Brett smiles at him. “You look like you feel better,” he says, trying not to let his eyes linger on this new and improved version of Eddy. His hair is now light and fluffy, towel-dried into waves that frame his face. The bruising on his cheek has already darkened, it looks better now that he’s no longer alarmingly pale. “Come on,” Brett says, tipping his head towards the table. “Let’s eat.”

He winds up refilling Eddy’s plate twice while cracking jokes about his potential future career as a chef. Eddy grins around mouthfuls of food but says very little until he finishes. 

And almost as soon as he’s done, he begins yawning.

“I’m sorry,” Eddy says. “You must think I’m the worst company.”

“Not at all,” Brett reassures him. “I’ve got the futon ready for you. I don’t expect you to entertain me or anything.” He pauses. “So were you sleeping in your car?”

Eddy yawns again, nodding. “Some nights. Not always. I’ve got a friend who sometimes lets me stay with him when his roommate isn’t home and a few other people who occasionally let me crash with them. It isn’t as bad as it probably sounds, except for last night.”

Brett remains silent, waiting.

“That was scary,” Eddy continues after a pause, his face very still. “I was asleep in the back seat when someone smashed in and jumped on top of me. I thought it was a nightmare at first, and fought back like I was taking on a demon or something. I guess he decided it was too much trouble to rob me and ran off.” He wraps his arms around himself, his eyes distant.

“That sounds terrifying,” Brett replies once he’s certain Eddy is done talking. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Eddy shrugs. “No real harm done. I feel lucky, it could have been so much worse.” He watches Brett’s face before continuing. “He could have stolen my violin. That would’ve destroyed me.”

Brett gives an involuntary shudder, and Eddy begins coughing. He really doesn’t like the sound of that cough, so he’s immediately on his feet and headed back to the closet. “I’ll just be a minute,” he calls. “I’ve got stuff in here. Somewhere. Let’s see…” A moment later he locates the nighttime cough syrup and a package of cough drops, which he carries to the table. 

Eddy looks up at him with a disbelieving smile that collapses in on itself and then he’s blinking rapidly and sniffling. “I’m sorry,” he says. “This is stupid. But you’re the first person that’s cared about me in ages and I’ve been alone for so long and—” His voice breaks, and he covers his eyes with his hands.

“Oh, Eddy.” Brett watches helplessly, unsure of what to do. “It’s nothing, really. You’re exhausted, and you’ve been through something awful. You’re going to feel so much better once you’ve had some sleep.”

Eddy continues sniffling as he nods while hiding his face.

Brett gets up to find a spoon for the cough syrup and a box of tissues, both of which he places on the table by the medicine. “Let’s get you to bed,” he says gently. “Two tablespoons of the syrup, and I bet that’ll knock you straight out.”

Eddy blows his nose, wipes his face, and measures the medicine with hands that tremble so badly Brett has to resist taking over the task for him. “Into bed,” he says instead, leading his new friend to the futon. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything. It’s at the end of the hallway, just past the bathroom.”

He waits until Eddy is curled up on his side before tugging the blankets over him, taking care not to make any sort of physical contact. “Sleep well,” he whispers before heading back to the kitchen to clean as quietly as he can manage.


	4. Chapter 4

Brett wakes early and navigates the apartment quietly while making coffee, eating cereal, and gathering his things. He checks on Eddy a few times, but he’s still sleeping and doesn’t appear to have moved a muscle during the night. That seems like good news; the more he sleeps, the sooner he’ll heal.

He doesn’t even wait for Vincent to knock before he opens the door and slips into the hallway.

“Hey Brett,” Vincent greets in his booming voice. “Did you know some asshole parked a junker in your space? I’d call management and get that thing towed if I were you.”

Brett makes sure they’re halfway to the lift and far out of Eddy’s potential earshot before replying. “Don’t tell me you _drove_ here.”

Vincent shrugs. “Wanted my car today. I didn’t think you’d mind arriving a few minutes early — you need to have a word with that Misserton woman, right?”

Brett sighs; he’d forgotten about the problem child of his section and the issues she’s been having with their new piece. “Yeah,” he says, sliding into the velvety warmth of Vincent’s car. “I guess I should block some time to work with her.”

Vincent gives him a slanted grin. “You should have stuck with the piano. There’s none of this section bullshit or concertmaster responsibility when you’re the only pianist.”

“You make a good point.” Brett changes the music from opera to classical before continuing. “But if I had, we wouldn’t be working with the same orchestra and what would you do without me?”

“What indeed,” Vincent says, favoring him with a warm look. They linger for a few extra minutes, listening to the rest of Sarasate’s Navarra in companionable silence before heading inside.

The day flashes past. Brett is busy as ever, attending meetings and discussing technical matters with other musicians and resolving various dramas that somehow arose overnight. By the time their rehearsal is finished, it’s mid-afternoon and things are calm enough for him to start getting anxious. He hopes Eddy doesn’t feel trapped in his apartment.

Just as he’s about to sneak out of the building Vincent and Madeline appear out of nowhere, flanking him on either side.

“Come get a drink with us,” Madeline says. 

“Just one,” Vincent chimes in.

Brett makes a face. “You know I don’t like to drink on work nights.”

“Tea, then.” Madeline tugs at his sleeve, her smile vibrant. 

“I really can’t,” Brett says, quickening his steps. 

They match his pace. “Why not?” Vincent steps in front of him and begins walking backward in order to watch his face. “We want to hear about how it went with Misserton.”

Brett grimaces. “That’s not even an interesting story. Let’s make plans to get together this weekend.”

Vincent continues back-walking directly in his path. “After one of the first performances of a new season? Like that’s gonna happen. Tomorrow I have meetings, and Thursday is Maddy’s date night, and then the madness starts all over again. Pretty soon a week will have passed and all we’ll have heard from you is that you need to practice more.”

Brett comes to a stop, frowning as he looks back and forth between them. “I can’t,” he says again. “I really need to get home. I’ve got a guest, and I already feel like a terrible host for being gone all day.”

He can feel Madeline and Vincent making surprised eye contact over his head. 

“What guest?” Vincent asks, puzzled. “You never have guests.”

Brett hesitates.

“Oh god,” Vincent says, dramatically half-covering his face with a splayed hand. “Your guest is that homeless guy, isn’t it?”

Brett opens his mouth to reply but doesn’t manage any words.

Vincent whirls to face Madeline, his face filled with accusation. “You let him do this?”

Madeline’s dark eyes blaze in return. “I had no idea! Don’t get all pissy at me.” As she catches sight of Brett’s expression, she lowers her voice. “…and it’s his apartment. It’s not as if I get a vote in who stays there.”

Vincent turns back to Brett. “Listen,” he says, switching to his I’m-the-reasonable-one-here voice. “I admire your willingness to help the less fortunate, but you know he’s just some junkie and is gonna rob you blind the first chance he gets, right?”

Brett shrugs, affecting a posture of indifference. “It’s not like I have much of value aside from my violin. And like you said, he’s homeless. I don’t think he’ll be running off with my rice maker or the coffee pot. Even my laptop’s on its last legs and wouldn’t sell for much.”

Vincent and Madeline exchange another glance and sigh almost in unison. “Honest to god, Brett,” Vincent says, shaking his head. “He shouldn’t be staying with you. You should be moving in with me, so I can protect you from yourself.”

“Nice try,” Madeline tells him with a roll of her eyes, catching Vincent’s arm and tugging him out of Brett’s path. “Go on, Brett. And give us a call if he turns out to be a psycho killer. We’ll be there as fast as we can stagger away from the bar.”

“So just in time to recover my body,” Brett replies with a strained grin. “Uh, have fun guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He hurries home as quickly as he can, his worries increasing with each passing moment -- but when the lift arrives on his floor his anxiety dissipates. The hallway is filled with the muted strains of Eddy’s violin playing. He doesn’t recognize the piece, but it’s soft and low and mournful, and Brett lingers in the hallway for a few extra minutes just so he can listen a bit longer. 

Once the closing chords ring out, he unlocks the door and steps inside. “I’m home,” he calls, which turns out to be completely unnecessary because Eddy is standing beside the futon and looking right at him.

“Welcome home,” Eddy says, lowering his violin and gazing at him with an expression Brett can’t quite read. “Did you, um. Have a good day at work?”

“I did,” Brett tells him while unburdening himself of his instrument case, knapsack, and jacket. “Sorry I was away for so long, though. I hope you weren’t too bored.”

Eddy shrugs. “I mostly slept, then finished washing my clothes, then started practicing and now… here you are.” His eyes go light and warm, but his expression remains neutral, on the edge of guarded. “Guess I lost track of time -- that happens sometimes when I’m practicing. It’s like the rest of the world fades away and it’s only me and the music.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Brett replies, smiling. “What was that you were playing? It was lovely, but I didn’t recognize it.”

“Oh.” Eddy blinks a few times before dropping his gaze to the floor. “It’s my own composition. Something I’ve been toying with for a while now. I’m glad you liked it.”

Brett stares at him. “You composed that yourself?”

“Yeah? It’s mostly just a thing I’ve been playing around with for fun.” Eddy looks away, clearly embarrassed. “So um, I realized that I don’t even know what you do. Except that you’re a professional musician of some sort?”

It’s Brett’s turn to feel embarrassed and unsure how to answer. After a moment of hesitation, he decides that direct and honest is probably the best approach. “I play with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.”

Eddy’s eyes go wide. “Oh,” he says. And then: “Wow.”

Brett drags a hand through his hair. “It still sometimes feels like a dream,” he admits. “Like I’m a kid and have everyone fooled into thinking I deserve to be there.”

Eddy doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, so he awkwardly shuffles his feet before setting his violin aside. “I haven’t heard you play yet.”

“You haven’t,” Brett agrees. “We should fix that. But first, let me order dinner for us. Were you able to find anything to eat while I was gone?”

Eddy blushes. “I had some of your cereal,” he says in a rush. “I hope that was okay…?”

“Of course it was.” Brett frowns. “You’re welcome to anything I've got here. Which isn’t much, but I’ll have some groceries delivered tomorrow if you don’t mind accepting them?”

“I don’t mind.” Eddy’s voice is so soft that it’s almost inaudible. “And I’ll go back to busking so I can contribute towards what I’ve eaten.”

Brett feels his frown deepen. “I really wish you wouldn’t. You need time to recover and get over that cold and heal from what happened.” He softens his voice further before continuing. “At least take a few days off. I don’t need you to pay me for anything. I’m doing fine.”

Eddy looks so uncomfortable that Brett is tempted to start talking again until he somehow finds the words to make this less awkward. “Okay,” Eddy says just in time, giving Brett a faint smile. “But I didn’t realize I’d be staying more than one night. I figured I’d be leaving as soon as you got back. I just didn’t want to leave your apartment unlocked.”

“No, no.” Brett shakes his head, frustrated. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t clear. Let me try again.” He clears his throat and waits until Eddy’s eyes are on his face. “You’re welcome to stay here, if you don’t mind sleeping on my futon and eating rice and listening to me practice…”

Eddy looks away, clearly fighting to stay in control of his emotions. “I don’t want to take advantage,” he begins, but his words are cut short by another coughing fit.

Brett looks around for the medicine, finally locating it by the kitchen sink. “Come here,” he says. “I want to take another look at that cut, too. I bet the fucker who attacked you didn’t bother sterilizing the knife before using it on you.”

Eddy continues coughing for another minute before following him into the kitchen. “I've been using the cough drops,” he says. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it’s okay. I hope you took some Tylenol, too. Do you think you have a fever?” 

Eddy touches a hand to his forehead. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I feel warm, but that’s probably because I’m in your apartment and not standing on a street corner or huddled in the back of my car.”

“Right.” Brett frowns as he studies Eddy’s slightly flushed face. “Do you mind if I…?”

When Eddy shakes his head, Brett carefully places his fingers against Eddy’s forehead. “A little warm,” he says. “But not too bad. Maybe a few degrees above normal.”

He’s surprised when Eddy leans his head into his touch until Brett pulls away.

“So what do you prescribe, Doctor Yang?”

Brett grins. “Fortunately this is one of my easier cases. Cough medication, Tylenol, plenty of fluids, and lots of rest in a warm, safe apartment.” He pours a measure of the cough syrup into a large spoon and debates trying to maneuver it into Eddy’s hand, but that seems like a recipe for disaster. Besides, he isn’t Brett right now, he’s Doctor Yang. “Open up,” he commands.

Eddy’s mouth pops open without hesitation, and Brett manages to deliver the dose without spilling. Eddy is already laughing as he swallows. 

“Keep laughing,” Brett says as he tugs back the bandage. Eddy flinches, but more in surprise than pain. “It looks good. Doesn’t look infected or very deep.” He applies a bit more antibiotic ointment before replacing the bandage.

“Thanks,” Eddy says once he’s done.

“Not a problem. Now give me a moment while I put in an order for soup.”

Eddy arches a brow. “Does this mean you’ve already given up on your career as a chef?”

Brett shrugs. “It’s harder than you might think, being both a doctor and a professional musician. I figure I’d best outsource the cheffing unless I can find a way to add more hours to the day.”

“How many hours a day do you think you’d need to balance three careers?”

“Probably about forty. Unless doctoring and cheffing require the same amount of practice as the violin -- in which case, I’m screwed.”

Warmed by the sound of Eddy’s laughter, he places an order for chicken soup with extra noodles. He half-watches Eddy while talking to the restaurant worker, pleased by how much healthier and happier he already looks. It’s a revelation to see him smile and joke around as he grows more comfortable in Brett’s apartment.

“Okay,” he says once he disconnects the call. “Dinner will be here in about half an hour. So. Um.” Now it’s his turn to feel shy. “…did you still want to hear me play?”

Eddy’s eyes light up. “Uh-huh.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Yes. Whatever you’re working on right now.”

“Well, that makes it easy.” He retrieves his violin and takes a moment to tune. “Sadly it’s nothing I’ve composed myself, but if you don’t mind the classics…”

He’s gratified when Eddy sinks into a chair and watches with rapt attention, the perfect model of a classical music audience member. Brett plays through Gymnopédie No. 1, trying not to let himself be distracted by the open pleasure on Eddy’s face. Eddy holds nothing back while listening, closing his eyes and swaying his head, his expressions flickering between amazement, joy, and open delight.

“That was good,” he breathes after Brett plays the final note. “So good.” Eddy gazes up at him with such pure, unabashed admiration that Brett has to look away. “No wonder you play with an orchestra.”

“You’re just as good,” Brett says sincerely. “A big part of the reason I play with an orchestra is that I graduated from a conservatory, gained a lot of performance experience, and made a lot of connections.”

Eddy looks unconvinced. “No, you’re amazing, don’t try to downplay it, I know amazing when I hear amazing.” He pauses, various emotions flickering through his expressive eyes. “Do you think we could play together sometime?”

“Of course.” Brett grins at him. “I’ve always wanted another violinist to duet with, but I rarely meet anyone interested in playing outside of a quartet or larger ensemble. I bet we’ll sound great together.” He’s about to add more, but somehow half an hour has already passed because the delivery person is at his door with their dinner.

They chat about food while eating the soup, and Brett isn’t surprised to learn that they generally like the same things — hot pot, Thai, sushi, Taiwanese fried chicken. He listens with amusement as Eddy tells a funny origin story about his loathing of mushrooms. He doesn’t press, but leaves openings for Eddy to tell him about his family or childhood. Eddy doesn’t rebuff him but he doesn’t offer any information, either.

By the time they finish the soup, Eddy’s eyes are growing heavy. “I think the medication is kicking in,” Brett tells him softly. “Probably time to get back to bed?”

Eddy looks like he wants to protest, but instead he yawns. “Okay,” he says, blinking sleepily. “But go ahead and practice or whatever you usually do. That cold medicine really knocks me out.”

“I noticed,” Brett says with a smile, counting his blessings that Eddy probably didn’t hear Vincent insult his car this morning.

Once he’s washed the dishes and placed the grocery order Brett considers taking Eddy up on his offer to practice, but for once he decides to let it go and read in bed instead. Apparently Eddy isn't the only one who needs extra rest, because he doesn't even remember setting the book aside or falling asleep.

—

It’s still dark outside when Brett jolts awake, filled with blind panic and certain that Vincent was right. Eddy has vanished into the night, his violin along with him, and his humiliation before his friends and colleagues will be endless. 

He races down the hallway, tripping over his feet and almost crashing into the first obstacle in his path. When he flips on the nearest lamp, enough to illuminate the living area, his fears are confirmed. Eddy isn’t in bed, and the blankets are missing too. Even the pillow is gone. Damn.

Brett whirls around to see what else he’s lost when a sigh catches his ear, stopping him in his tracks. He approaches the futon slowly, making as little noise as possible, and when he reaches the foot of the mattress the mystery is solved. Eddy is on the floor, curled up with the blankets, his body huddled against the far wall.

A mixture of shame and relief washes over him, replaced seconds later with concern. After a moment of hesitation, he crouches down beside the sleeping man. “Eddy,” he says, keeping his voice low so not to startle him. “Hey. Eddy. Why are you on the floor?”

Eddy jerks at the sound of his voice before stirring to half-wakefulness. “Oh,” he says, cracking his eyes open. 

“The floor is hard, and it’s drafty down here,” Brett says. “Come on. Let’s get you back into bed.”

Eddy allows Brett to help him untangle from his nest of blankets and sheets before looking at him with a frown. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just felt, um. Exposed, sleeping in the middle of the room. It seems safer down here.” His voice grows fainter with each successive word.

Brett pauses to consider his explanation before replying. “Okay,” he says. “That makes sense. Let’s push the futon against the wall, and then you’ll only be exposed on one side.”

Eddy’s eyes widen. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. What do I care where the futon sits?” He piles the blankets and pillow on the mattress while Eddy struggles to his feet, and the two of them move the end table out of the way before sliding the futon across the floor until it’s flush with the far wall. By the time they finish, Brett is a little out of breath.

“Better?” he asks, eying their work.

“Much.” Eddy gives a shy smile. “I know it must seem dumb, but—”

“It doesn’t.”

“I feel better when I can keep an eye on things. Like the door. And knowing if anything is behind me.”

“Sounds smart,” Brett says. “Think you’ll be able to get back to sleep?”

Eddy nods before dropping into the futon. “What time is it, anyhow?”

Brett glances towards the kitchen clock and winces. “The bad news is, it’s three am. The good news is, that’s plenty of time to get back to sleep, so I’m gonna do that.” He picks up the blanket and drapes it over Eddy’s body in a rush of protectiveness. “I hope it helps. The bed being here.”

“It will.”

“Good.” He lingers another moment, reluctant to leave. “I want you to feel safe,” he adds impulsively. “You deserve to feel safe.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter today because I won't be able to update again until Monday. I hope you all have a great weekend and again, thanks for reading!

Once he’s finished with rehearsals, Brett takes a bus to the local hardware store where he purchases a heavy chain-link lock and a grade-one deadbolt. After a few moments of deliberation, he also has a copy of his apartment key made. It’s probably a bad idea, he tells himself repeatedly, but most of him isn’t listening.

It’s dark outside when he arrives home, and he finds Eddy not practicing but pacing. With a single glance at his face Brett knows something isn’t right.

“Did you have to work late?” Eddy’s voice has a brittle quality that Brett doesn’t think he’s heard before.

“I’m sorry about that,” Brett says, keeping his words even. “I would have called you, but…”

Eddy’s expression remains unreadable. 

“Listen,” Brett continues, switching tactics. “I went to the hardware store and had them make you a copy of the key so you aren’t trapped in here while I’m gone. I’ve been concerned that you’ve wanted to go places during the day but felt like you couldn’t. Because you didn’t have your own key.”

Eddy looks away. “I was worried,” he says, his voice a little choked. “I know it’s dumb, because I don’t even know what time you normally get home, but I kept thinking about bad things that might have happened.” He sighs, eyes on the floor.

“Oh, Eddy.” Brett drops his things on the table and turns to face him again. “I’m not the only one who worries a lot, hey?”

Eddy shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t used to be like this. Constantly thinking about the worst thing that could happen and obsessing about it until I’m sure it’s actually going to happen, or has happened, or…” His breathing quickens along with his words as draws in upon himself.

“It’s okay,” Brett says in a rush. “What can I do to help? Do you want some water, or a few minutes alone, or—”

“A hug?” Eddy interrupts in a whisper.

“Oh.” He’s a little uncertain about how to approach hugging a very new friend who seems close to a nervous breakdown, but decides maybe over-thinking isn’t the way to go. He steps closer and lightly wraps both arms around Eddy’s trembling body, allowing him to decide how much contact he wants.

Eddy doesn’t hesitate at all, his head dropping against Brett’s shoulder, his arms encircling him tightly. Brett alternates between rubbing his back and petting his hair while making what he hopes are comforting sounds. “You’re okay,” he says. “Everything is okay.”

Eddy’s chest hitches and his throat works painfully, and Brett realizes that he’s doing everything he can not to cry. “That’s… okay too,” he says, fighting back his discomfort. “I’ve got you.”

A few more hitches and Eddy sags against him, hot tears flowing amid strangled sobs. Brett continues to comfort him as best he can, until his arms ache and his balance grows unsteady. Eventually Eddy calms, his pounding heart slowing, the tears ceasing, and his breathing returning to normal.

“I’m so sorry,” Eddy says as he pulls away, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you.” Brett retrieves the box of tissues from the table and passes them over. “Blow your nose and I’ll get you some water.”

He takes his time running the tap cold and filling a glass before returning to where Eddy has managed to more or less pull himself back together. His eyes are red-rimmed and his nose is pink, but the blank expression from earlier is gone. “Here,” Brett says, handing Eddy the water. “Drink, you don’t want to get dehydrated and wind up with a headache.”

“Thanks, doctor.” Eddy drains a third of the glass before looking at Brett’s face again. “I didn’t used to be like this.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?” Eddy gives an uncertain laugh. “Because I’m not sure what evidence you’re going on there.”

“I don’t need any evidence. Just you saying it is enough. I know you’ve been through some things, and I get that it’s going to take time before you recover.”

Eddy frowns as he listens. “What if I don’t get better? What if I’m just a mess and you’ve moved a whole mess into your home?”

Brett shakes his head. “You’re not a mess. You’re recovering from being sick, and getting attacked, and whatever else has happened. And you don’t have to tell me any of it if you don’t want to,” he adds hastily. “Just someone attacking you while you were sick is enough to set most people back. And now you’re living with someone you only just met on top of that. It’s a lot.”

Eddy sniffles again. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“Because you’re my friend, and I like you.”

“But we only just met.”

Brett shrugs. “It doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I was meant to meet you.” He pauses, embarrassed, but forces himself to continue. “Like we were meant to be friends. I’m gonna trust my instincts on this, and also…”

Eddy waits, reddened eyes on his face.

“I can’t wait for us to start playing together. It’s going to be so much fun, and we’re going to sound amazing as a duo. I know we will.”

—

Before departing the next morning, Brett leaves the extra key on the table with a note: “ _Should be home by four. Have a good day, don’t go busking yet, practice instead -- B._ ”

When he returns, he brings Thai food and two precariously balanced cups of bubble tea. He’s pleased to hear Eddy playing, starting and stopping and restarting the section he’s working on multiple times until he gets it right. Once again, he lingers in the hallway so he can listen a bit longer, but just as the playing ceases the door unlocks and swings open.

“Spying on me?”

Brett gives a sheepish smile in response to Eddy’s cheeky grin.

“Maybe a little,” he admits. “Mostly I just didn’t want to interrupt, since you were so close to getting that right. Are you hungry?”

“Always.” Eddy takes the teas out of his hands and places them on the table before assisting with the rest of Brett’s various burdens. “I hope you didn’t get it too spicy, though. I don’t think I told you I’m a wimp with spicy things.”

“Same.” Brett grins at him. “I don’t remember if you told me or not, but I guess I just assumed.”

They chat comfortably while eating, with Brett sharing the amusing parts of his day and Eddy listening with rapt attention. “Is it like you imagined when you were a student and dreaming of working professionally?”

Brett hems. “Not exactly,” he admits after downing another mouthful of noodles. “I had this vision of everyone being a serious musician, people who lived and breathed classical music, but for most of them… it’s just a job, you know? Especially after the first year or two. I guess you eventually take everything for granted but I sort of thought there might be… I don’t know, more _magic_ to it.”

Eddy looks a little sad. “How can anyone devote their life to becoming a classical musician and not love it above everything else?” 

Brett frowns, feeling a bit disloyal over his admission. “I’m sure most of them do. It’s just that they also have lives away from music and orchestra, you know? It’s not their fault that I don’t.”

“Of course you do,” Eddy laughs. “You have your amateur doctoring, and your recently-paused career as a chef, not to mention your thriving side-business in street musician rescue. I hear that’s going really well.”

“I’m not sure there’s much growth opportunity, though. It’s not as if I stumble across talented violinists on every street corner, or that I could house more than a handful.”

“It's probably not all that lucrative, either,” Eddy notes, his smile fading.

“Like classical music,” Brett replies after a beat. “You don’t do it for stacks of cash, but for… because you know other things are more valuable.” He drops his head as he feels heat rushing to his cheeks. “Um, so. What do you say we take a stab at a duet?”

Eddy brightens and pushes away from the table so quickly he nearly topples his chair. “I was looking through my sheet music today and found my copy of Bériot’s Grand Duo. How about we try that?”

They set up Brett’s music stand and spend a little time studying the score while Brett tunes. “Slightly flat,” Eddy tells him, his eyes glued to the piece. And then a moment later: “Tiny bit sharp there.”

“Your ear might be better than mine,” Brett marvels before realizing how that sounds. “I mean, yeah. You’re right.” He plays a few more fifths before earning Eddy’s nod of approval. “You want to take first or second?”

Eddy hesitates briefly before responding. “Second,” he says. “I’ll follow you.”

“You sure?” Brett arches a brow. “I really don’t mind.”

Eddy nods, more decisive this time. “How often do I get to play with a professional violinist?” There’s a hint of teasing buried in his tone, but his expression is sincere. 

It’s even better than Brett thought it would be. Eddy has either been practicing the part on his own or he’s exceptionally skilled at sight-reading. They meld together effortlessly, with Eddy watching him closely and both of them sharing smiles over their mistakes. Eddy’s beautiful tone blends seamlessly with his, both supporting and elevating. By the time they finish the first movement he’s entered an altered state of bliss.

“Amazing,” Eddy breathes as they take a moment to rest, his eyes shining.

“Really good bro,” Brett says, not quite wanting to meet his gaze for fear of what his eyes might reveal. “We should be recording this, we sound so good together, especially for our first time. It’s almost always a big mess at first.”

Eddy laughs. “Let’s work out the kinks first. Do we really want permanent evidence of all the mistakes we’re making?”

“We’ll call them variations,” Brett says before cuing to start the second movement. In spite of a few false starts and stops due to it being a new piece, they sound like they’ve been playing together for years. That’s the real reason he wishes he were recording; to check and see if he’s hearing what he thinks he is.

Because to his ear it sounds almost too good to be true.

—

It takes Brett some time to work up the nerve, but when he has a chance he pulls Madeline aside and asks if she can come over to install the new locks on his front door.

“New locks?” Madeline looks alarmed. “Did someone try to break in?”

“No no no. Nothing like that.”

She frowns. “Shouldn’t your landlord or the building’s maintenance department take care of something like this? I mean, I don’t mind doing it for you, but I’d hate to do anything that’s against your lease.”

He does his best to feign nonchalance. “It’s probably against the lease, which is why I don’t want to ask maintenance.”

Madeline arches her perfectly manicured brows and studies him with an odd expression. “Listen, I don’t want to push, but this doesn’t sound like you. Are you sure everything’s okay? If you’ve acquired a stalker, or if that guy you broke things off with last year is bothering you again…”

Brett shakes his head. “I can’t really go into the details right now, but I promise I’ll tell you more at some point.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but they settle their plans for when she’s to arrive and what tools she’s likely to need.

Brett has no idea what to expect when he tells Eddy that a friend will be dropping by for a visit but isn’t surprised when he reacts with trepidation. 

“Should I go somewhere while she’s here? I can wait at the café. Have a bubble tea. Or just go for a walk.”

“You can,” Brett assures him. “You don’t have to stick around if you’re not in the right state of mind to meet someone new. But you’re also welcome to stay. I think you’d like her. She’s a good friend, and an excellent musician.”

Eddy can’t seem to help being interested. “She plays in the orchestra with you?”

Brett nods. “She’s the harpist. And she’s also into power tools.”

A smile flickers across Eddy’s face. “She sounds interesting, but I don’t think I’m ready to meet your friends yet. What if she doesn’t like me? What if she asks questions and it gets awkward?” He shakes his head. “I’d rather wait until I have my life a bit more together first.”

“Sure.” Brett gives a reassuring smile. “This shouldn’t take long, so don’t go too far. But if you don’t hear me practicing when you get back, that means she’s still here.”

Eddy is barely out the door when Madeline arrives with a laughably large tool box and a curious expression. “Alrighty,” she says, setting her tools on the floor to inspect the door frame. “I’ve got to warn you, I’m not gonna be able to visit for long. I’m meeting up with Darien and Elise for our ensemble after I’m done here.”

Brett can’t quite keep the surprise off his face. Darien and Elise both seem impossibly old to him, although realistically they’re probably only in their early 70s. “Oh, a party,” he says with a smile. “Well, I definitely don’t want to delay you.” He shows her the locks and they test out various positions for them before proceeding with the installation. He holds the metal braces in place while she operates the power tools with cool confidence. 

“You’re the only person I’d trust to drill so close to my fingers,” he tells her between screws, drawing a bout of bright laughter. 

“That’s not what I hear,” she teases, but she’s operating the drill again before he can defend his honor. Which is probably for the best, considering that he’s blushing furiously. It only takes her a few minutes to complete the job, and after she tests the locks she nods in approval of their work.

“Those will stop all but the most determined burglar,” she says while unplugging the drill and putting her tools away. “So uh. I can’t help but notice that you’ve done some redecorating in here.”

Brett glances around the room, frowning as he sees the area through new eyes. One of his end tables has been shoved into a random space between the living area and the kitchen, the futon is still unfolded into a bed and remains pressed against the far wall. Nothing is centered against his entertainment center anymore, and even his laptop has been relocated to the kitchen counter. Worse, Eddy’s things sit in various stacks and piles, none of them any too neat.

“It’s temporary,” he tells her, but that only earns him another arching of her brows. 

“So he’s still staying here, is he?” She lowers her voice and glances down the hallway. “He’s not hiding in your bedroom, is he? If he is, you should tell him I don’t bite. I’d like to meet him.”

Brett shakes his head. “No, he’s not. He’s gone out for a bit.”

Madeline doesn’t look entirely convinced, but doesn’t push. “Is there anything else I can help you with while I’m here?”

“No, that was it. And thank you.” He beams a smile at her. “I really appreciate it. Have fun in your ensemble, and say hi to Darien and Elise for me.”

“You could come with me? Give us your feedback on how we’re doing and what we should be working on, or just applaud when we finish.”

“Wish I could,” he replies regretfully. “But I’ve got other plans.”

“With your street pal.”

Brett winces. “Eddy,” he corrects, gently but firmly. “And yes, with him.”

“Oh, Brett.” She sighs as she hoists her tool box. “I’d sure feel better about this if you let one of us meet him. Just to give you a second opinion.”

There’s no polite way to tell her that no one else’s opinion would matter to him. “Maybe next time. Until then, you’ll just have to trust my judge of character.”

“Says the man whose closest friends are Vincent D’Armino and yours truly, who probably just finished committing a property crime.” She gives a cheery little wave before letting herself out.

—

As soon as Eddy returns, Brett shows him the new locks and demonstrates their sturdiness. “So, even if someone were able to force the door, the chain is strong enough to hold quite a bit of weight. What do you think?”

Eddy appears overwhelmed, his mouth working soundlessly before he finds his words. “You had extra locks installed on your door just to indulge me?”

There’s something in his tone that Brett doesn’t quite trust, and he responds with exacting gentleness. “To help you feel safer,” he corrects. “That’s not an indulgence. It’s important to me that you feel safe here.”

“Okay,” Eddy says. “I… I think I need to use the restroom.”

He rushes down the hallway and into the bath. The door barely closes behind him before water starts running into the sink full-force.

Brett follows after and lingers outside, listening to the water with growing concern. “Eddy,” he calls after a few minutes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” The reply is muffled. “Just a minute.”

“All right,” Brett says. “I’m right here if you need anything.”

It’s a very long time before he hears anything but the running water and he isn’t sure what he should do. He wants to respect Eddy’s privacy, but doesn’t want to leave him either. He settles for sitting on the floor across the hall from the bathroom, his back braced against the wall, his hands twisting anxiously in his lap.

When Eddy finally emerges, his eyes are red-rimmed and his face is blotchy. “Sorry about that,” he says, offering Brett a hand to help him up. “Thank you for the locks. They really do make me feel better.”

Brett squeezes his hand for a few extra seconds after he’s back on his feet. “Yeah?” He studies Eddy’s face with care, but unfortunately he just doesn’t know him well enough to decipher various micro-expressions. 

“Yeah,” Eddy says with more certainty. “I’ll sleep a lot better knowing they’re there.”

Brett hesitates. “Um. Do you mind if I ask you a thing?”

Eddy hesitates as well, but nods.

“Is there someone in particular you’re afraid might find you here?”

The question hangs briefly in the air before Eddy replies with a shake of his head. “It’s nothing that logical.”

“Okay.” Brett gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “If you ever want to talk, I’m willing to listen.”

Eddy gives a smile that’s not entirely genuine. “Thanks. But I’d rather play. You wanna get tuned?”

\--

They spend the next day and a half playing together and practicing apart, eating noodles and drinking bubble tea, fooling around with games and watching anime. It’s all so easy and comfortable that Brett barely notices time passing until Eddy starts yawning late in the evening. Even so, Brett’s reluctant to call the day done because it means the start of a very busy week for him and much less time for the two of them.

He goes over his schedule with Eddy so there’s no surprises about the number of hours he’ll be away and Eddy takes the news stoically. “I might do some busking,” he says. “Now that my cough has cleared up and my face…” He touches his fingertips to his cheek, frowning. “Is it less noticeable now?”

“Definitely,” Brett assures him. He’s amazed at how much progress Eddy has made in such a short amount of time. It helps that he’s clean, with freshly washed clothes (most of which belong to Brett) and regularly shampooed hair. He’s mostly recovered from his cold, the cut on his face has healed, and the bruising has faded. “Just makes you look a little mysterious.”

Eddy responds with a sleepy smile. “Perfect for getting the most tips while busking,” he says. “I’ll just go for a few hours. Maybe I’ll make enough to buy us dinner or something, and to keep me feeling comfortable performing. Once you stop, it’s hard to start again.”

Brett nods sympathetically. “You’d best get some sleep, then.”

He still finds himself lingering on the edge of the futon, hating that their day together has come to a close.

The next morning begins badly. He sleeps past his alarm, gets ready in a near panic and is barely prepared to leave when Vincent pounds on his door. It takes him a few minutes to fumble through the succession of new locks and he winds up re-locking one of them before his fingers obey his wishes. 

“What in Hades,” Vincent says. He pushes his way inside and turns to face the locks, frowning. “What’s all of this, Bretty?”

Unfortunately Vincent is speaking at this usual volume — approximately twice that of a normal person — and Brett catches sight of Eddy stirring within his blankets. _Go back to sleep,_ Brett thinks as hard as he can, but unfortunately they don’t seem to share a telepathic link.

“Is everything okay?” Eddy sounds confused, as if not certain he’s addressing reality or a dream.

“Fine, fine,” Brett responds hastily. “We were just leaving.”

“Before you introduce me to your guest?” Vincent’s irritated expression vanishes, replaced by one that Brett likes considerably less. It’s his sharkish look, the one he wears when he smells blood in the water or focuses on a person he feels compelled to put in their place.

“Vincent, please,” he whispers, but his friend doesn’t seem to hear him. 

“So, hello there,” Vincent says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Eddy struggles free of his bedding and makes his way across the room, blurry eyed without his glasses and looking enormously vulnerable in a pair of Bret’s too-short pajamas. “Hi,” he says, shyness leaking from every pore. “Nice to meet you too, um…” He looks at Brett, and it’s clear he has no idea who Vincent might be.

Brett sighs, hating every second of how this is unfolding. “My friend Vincent,” he says. “And Vincent, this is Eddy. He’s the violinist I’ve been telling you about.”

Vincent’s eyes are fixed on Eddy, openly evaluating and judging. “I’m his oldest, closest friend,” he corrects. “Best friends since our first year of high school, isn’t that something?” His smile is wide and sharp. “Hey, did you know Bretty attended an exclusive private school on a full scholarship? A music scholarship, no less? I bet he hasn’t told you that. He’s too modest.”

Brett winces, mortified. “It doesn’t matter,” he mutters. “High school was a long time ago.”

Eddy looks stricken. “I didn’t know. But I’m not surprised. Brett is so talented.”

“He sure is.” Vincent loops an arm around Brett’s shoulders and draws him closer. “So where’d you go to school?”

Brett delivers a nudge with his elbow. “We need to get going,” he says firmly. 

“But I’m so _curious_ about this arrangement.” Vincent changes his tone from inquisition to purring house-cat. “…but fine. If you insist. You know I’d never do anything that would make your life harder.”

“Yeah yeah,” Brett responds for lack of anything better to say. “Sorry to wake you, Eddy. We’re going now.” He takes Vincent’s elbow firmly this time, guiding him towards the door. He shoots Eddy an apologetic look as he hustles them into the hallway, feeling slightly sick to his stomach.

“Was that really necessary,” he asks as they begin the walk to rehearsal, but Vincent’s glance at him is puzzled. 

“What do you mean?”

“Telling him that stuff about me. Being all shouty. Couldn’t you see you were upsetting him?”

Vincent looks no more enlightened. “I was just trying to get to know him and telling him a little about us. Seems like he should know basic things about you if he’s gonna crash in your living room.”

“He’s here because I invited him,” Brett says. “And you could have been, you know, a bit more gentle. He’s had a rough time of it.”

“Of course he has,” Vincent replies with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Every homeless dude has a well-honed sob story. That’s how they manage to find people willing to let them crash on their couches. Do you think you’re the first guy he’s pulled the whole wounded bird act on?” He turns to watch Brett’s expression and seems surprised by what he sees.

“He’s not like that.”

Vincent laughs, although not without sympathy. “Oh, Bretty. You’re too good for this world. Speaking of which, what’s with all the locks?”

Brett frowns. “Just… additional security. Seems like the sort of thing you’d be happy about.”

Vincent makes a small noise in his throat. “Honestly, if that place is so unsafe, you should come live with me.”

“Thanks, I always appreciate the offer, but I like having my own place.”

This time, Vincent straight-up laughs. “But you don’t? You’ve got some homeless dude camping in your living room. I don’t suppose he’s paying rent, is he?”

Brett's silence seems to speak for himself.

“Cooking and cleaning, then?”

Brett shrugs. “I didn’t ask him to move in so he could be my servant.”

Vincent is looking more and more pleased with himself. “I hope he’s fantastic in bed, then.”

Brett blushes and looks away. “It’s not like that.”

Vincent laughter is booming. “Oh god, Brett. He doesn’t even put out? What are you doing, baby.” He shakes his head, his expression vaguely smug but his eyes filled with sympathy. “He’s not even that cute.”

Brett is oddly hurt, as if he’s been personally insulted. He tilts his chin up stubbornly, frowning. “I disagree.”

This time, Vincent just sighs. “So it’s every bit as bad as I imagined.” He lapses into moody silence until they arrive at work and head their separate ways.


	6. Chapter 6

Brett spends much of the afternoon worrying about Eddy and pondering worst-case scenarios. He’s worked himself into a state by the time he leaves work, but when he arrives home he finds Eddy standing by the window playing an ethereal piece while sunlight streams in around him. When he finishes Brett gives a round of applause, and Eddy turns to him with a smile warm as summer.

“Thank you, thank you,” he says, executing a cute little bow. “I think I rushed that last bit though, and I definitely missed a few notes, and the whole middle section needs tightening.”

“How long have you been practicing for?”

“On and off, probably about three hours.” He puts his violin back into its case before looking at Brett with glowing eyes. “I ordered dinner for us, it should be here soon. How was your day?”

Brett unwinds his scarf and loops it between his hands instead. “Pretty good,” he says. “We’re doing rehearsals for a new season, so there’s a lot to iron out and people are getting impatient with each other.”

“Not with you I hope?”

Brett shakes his head. “No, not usually. Or at least, not to my face. Anyhow, I wanted to apologize about this morning.”

Eddy takes a seat at the table and waits.

“I’m sorry Vincent was rude to you. There was no need for that, and he’s usually not so bad. He’s just… protective, and sometimes his protectiveness makes him come across like an ass.”

Eddy studies his face before responding. “When you say protective, I think you mean possessive.”

Brett frowns. “Maybe. Yeah, maybe a little. He’s not used to having competition.”

“Is that what I am?” 

Brett thinks Eddy looks a bit pleased by the idea, but he’s not certain he’s reading him correctly. “Well, you’re living with me, and he’s not,” he replies. “I think that bothers him a bit. Especially since I haven’t been in a rush to introduce you two, which…”

Their meal arrives before he can say anything more, and it’s a mercy to have food to shove into his mouth rather than trying to explain why Vincent behaves the way he does.

—

He holds off on talking to Vincent until after work the following day. 

Their plan is to remain in the rehearsal hall after the others have gone home so Vincent can accompany him on piano while Brett does a few run-throughs of his upcoming solo. It’s been a while since the two of them played alone together, and Brett’s forgotten what a joy it is. Whatever challenges they have in their friendship, he has nothing to complain about when it comes to their musical collaborations. 

Once they finish the third pass with no glaring errors, Vincent looks up at him with a sweet smile. “Excellent,” he says. “You wanna get a quick drink?”

Brett hesitates before shaking his head. “Nah, not on a work night. I did want to talk to you for a minute, though.”

Vincent's smile flickers. “Yeah, I figured. And hey listen, I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking about how rude I was to your guest and the more I think about it, the more I think I was out of line. I shouldn’t have said anything and now he probably never wants to see me again, right?”

Brett shakes his head. “He’s actually really understanding.”

“Yeah?” Vincent looks surprised by that news, and perhaps not entirely pleased. “Well, um -- good. I hope you’re willing to forgive me too. I shouldn’t have given you my opinions when you didn’t ask, and I definitely should’ve been more tactful.”

“Ah well.” Brett summons a smile. “When I think of you, ‘tact’ isn’t exactly the first word that springs to mind.” 

They grin at each other before Vincent turns serious again. “It’s possible that I’m misreading everything,” he continues. “And even if I’m not — well, if he’s important to you, then he’s important to me. I’ll make more of an effort to be gracious next time.”

He sounds sincere, so Brett nods. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says pleasantly. “Because you being mean to him only makes things harder for me.”

Vincent’s expression wavers a bit. “Which things?”

“You know.” Brett shoulders his violin case and waves a hand through the air. “Helping him recover from whatever he’s been through and getting his life back on track.”

“That’s what you’re doing?” And just like that, Vincent’s air of serenity drops away. “Bretty, are you sure—”

“I’m sure.”

Vincent heaves a sigh. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Like I said, if it’s important to you, then it’s important to me, and I’ll support your efforts.” He pauses for a beat. “Even if I think you’ve gone off the deep end with this one.”

—

With every passing day, Eddy seems happier, healthier, and ready to push himself further. He busks for change and earns enough to contribute towards their shared expenses in spite of Brett’s objections. He helps with the housework, arranges his schedule so he’s home to accept deliveries, practices countless hours, and makes progress on his original compositions. Eventually he asks Brett for permission to use his laptop, which Brett agrees to without hesitation. 

“Just don’t go using it to visit those sites advertising Hot Local Girls and get it infected with a virus,” he warns with a playful smile. 

Eddy looks at him oddly. “What makes you think I’m into girls?”

It’s hard to read his tone, and it’s possible that he’s teasing, so Brett just shrugs. “Sorry to assume. I was just kidding anyhow. Use it for whatever you like.”

Eddy blushes and looks away. “I was actually going to use it for music.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

Eddy explains his plan and Brett listens with growing interest, nodding along. It’s a little above his head — technology isn’t his strongest subject — but he’s happy to hear Eddy has more plans and possibilities in the works. 

So things are going well, far better than Brett would have imagined a few weeks ago, save for three ongoing issues.

First, there’s what happens when he arrives home. It doesn’t seem to matter that Eddy is good at keeping himself busy and has been leaving the apartment and interacting with other people. As soon as Brett steps inside he’s instantly at the door, eyes bright and eager as he welcomes him and insists on hearing about his day. Once they’ve discussed everything that’s happened since they parted, Eddy continues following him from room to room, radiating with anxiety like there’s some crucial part of a ritual that hasn’t been completed. 

It’s unsettling because Brett can’t relax either, and he’d very much like to have a little time between his work day and their routine of eating dinner, playing violin together, and watching television before bed. He can’t bring himself to ask Eddy to give him space, so he winds up taking long showers in order to recharge and steal a little private time.

When he emerges Eddy is waiting nearby, looking worried. It isn’t until they’ve eaten and started playing their violins that he seems like himself again — serious about music while offering interesting observations and delivering terrible puns with the regularity of a metronome. 

And then often, after hours of everything going well and Eddy appearing happy and relaxed, they’ll wind down with a few episodes of an anime series or a movie. They have similar tastes and enjoy introducing each other to things the other has missed. They’ll be having a good time and everything will be going well — and then Brett will glance over at Eddy and see that he’s either on the verge of tears or silently crying.

What they’re watching is seldom sad or upsetting, so Brett has no idea what’s going on. Most of the time he’ll shift closer to his friend in an attempt to comfort him with his proximity. Other times he’ll squeeze his shoulder or awkwardly pat his hand. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asks a few times, but Eddy always shakes his head.

“Should I turn it off?” He hates that what should be lighthearted entertainment is causing Eddy pain, but Eddy consistently turns down the offers. No no, he’s fine. No no, they can keep watching. He’s just tired.

He’s not surprised that Eddy is tired, considering the third issue, which comes at night. He discovers the problem when he wakes early in the morning and stumbles into the kitchen for a glass of water and finds Eddy thrashing around in bed, whimpering and crying out for help. When Brett rouses him from his nightmare, the look of terror on his face leaves him shaken.

“David?”

“No, it’s Brett. I think you were having a nightmare. Are you okay?”

Eddy’s panicked expression slowly gives way to recognition. “Yeah? I think so. Maybe?” He rubs his face with hands that aren’t entirely steady. “That was a terrible dream.”

“Want me to stay with you for a bit?”

Eddy shakes his head. “No, you need your sleep. I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“You didn’t,” Brett assures him, but it’s clear from Eddy’s face that he doesn’t believe him.

He starts sleeping with his bedroom door open, and realizes to his distress that Eddy’s nightmares aren’t a rare occurrence. They’re a nearly nightly feature, and Brett hasn’t a clue what he can do to make things better.

“Maybe if you talk about it while you’re awake, your mind will stop trying to process things while you’re sleeping,” he says while seated on the edge of the futon on another night where he’s stumbled in to rouse his troubled friend.

Eddy seems to consider the idea, but when he replies his voice is distant and strange. “Do you hear music when you sleep?” He doesn’t wait for Brett to answer. “It’s so frustrating because it will be so beautiful but as soon as I wake, it’s gone. Sometimes I try to write it down, but I almost always forget before I capture more than a few bars.”

Brett sighs. “No. If I dream about music, it’s about me playing it, or more likely me fucking it up.”

“Oh.” Eddy seems disappointed, but he settles down amid his pillows. His eyes drift shut, and the tension leaves his face. Brett shifts backwards, about to retreat to his own room, when Eddy’s fingers suddenly close over his wrist.

“Sometimes I dream that he’s still here,” he whispers. “I thought I got away from him, but maybe I didn’t, because a piece of him is still here.”

“Oh, Eddy.” Brett freezes, his heart aching. “You’re safe now. I’m going to make sure that you’re safe, no matter what.”

If Eddy hears him, he gives no indication of it. “I hear his voice along with the music. It’s so beautiful, but he’s so angry. I never understood why I was making him so angry, and I still don’t. I guess it’s because he’s only in my head now, and if he’s in my head then he can hear my thoughts.”

“That’s not possible,” Brett begins before cutting himself off because this is entirely the wrong approach. He takes a moment to think, searching for the right words, but he doesn’t have a clue how to make this better. 

“You’re safe here,” Brett repeats in lieu of anything better. He rests his head against the wall and listens to the sound of Eddy’s breathing, relaxing as it grows slow and even. “I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again,” he whispers with far too much feeling, grateful that Eddy is almost certainly asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm going to be very busy for the next week or two and so probably only updating this story every other day. I'll do my best to be consistent, though. Take care, and thanks for reading!

At the end of the work week, Brett finally agrees to go out with Madeline and Vincent. He doesn’t exactly jump at the offer — he hates being away from home for long periods of time now — but they tag-team him until he finally relents. 

By the time they’ve finished dinner at one of his favorite restaurants and are having another round of drinks, he’s glad he accepted their invitation. It’s been too long since he’s spent time with his friends away from work, and he’s almost forgotten how enjoyable it is to be a trio again. They laugh, share jokes, complain about their co-workers and talk in the easy short-hand they’ve developed over the years. 

Eventually the subject turns to Eddy, and as soon as his name is mentioned their energy undergoes a subtle shift.

“I can’t believe I still haven’t met him,” Madeline says, her large eyes reflecting the candle that burns in the center of their table. “I’ve been really patient about this, and it’s past time for you to introduce us.”

“We’ll see.” He takes a sip of his drink as his mood deflates. “It’s definitely going to happen. I’m just not sure when.”

Vincent frowns. “If he can survive meeting me, then I’m pretty sure he can handle Madeline.”

Brett shrugs. “Of course he could handle it. I just… don’t want to put any pressure on him right now. He’s doing well, but he needs support from me. Not additional stressors.”

Madeline stops stirring her drink to look up in surprise. “Did you seriously just call me a stressor?”

Brett blinks a few times. “No, you’re not… well, I mean, I guess I did, but I didn’t mean it that way.” He sighs. “Just that meeting important people in my life is definitely going to stress him out, and while he’s doing better…” He trails away, his frown deepening.

The two of them shift closer to him, their expressions morphing into looks of concern.

Vincent brushes his fingers down his arm. “What’s going on, Brett? Maybe we can help. I’ve been known to give good advice occasionally, yeah?”

Brett is silent while finishing his drink down to the ice. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, meeting Madeline’s gaze. “I mean, he’s clearly been through a lot. And I’m not sure I’m doing everything as well as I could be.” He goes on to explain what it’s like coming home from work to Eddy’s clinginess and his own increasing discomfort. 

They both listen with great interest, but it’s Vincent who speaks first.

“Okay. So. You moved a homeless dude into your apartment, and now you’re… what? Surprised he’s a bottomless pit of need?”

Madeline shoots Vincent a dark look. “That’s not a very charitable way of putting it,” she tells him with an edge to her voice.

Vincent holds up both hands, palms out. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding especially so. “I’m sure he’s a super sweet guy, but Brett — it’s possible that he needs more than you can give him, and maybe that’s all there is to it.”

Madeline sighs, irritated, before turning her full attention to Brett. “Have you talked to him about this?”

Brett frowns. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits. “I haven’t had much luck getting him to tell me much of anything about himself and I don’t want to push.”

“Then don’t,” she replies. “Just tell him what _you_ need. Such as: ‘hey bro, when I get home from work, I need a little time to myself to decompress.’ Tell him the amount of time you need, reassure him that you’ll be happy to spend the rest of the evening together — I mean, if you are — but it sounds like you need to start setting some boundaries.”

Brett shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “That’s going to hurt his feelings.”

Vincent breathes out through his nose. “When did you sign up to be responsible for his feelings? Beside, those tender feels are gonna be hurt a lot worse if you completely burn out and start resenting him. Which you will. What you’re describing isn’t normal.”

Brett shrugs. “Nothing about this is normal,” he admits. “And I appreciate the suggestion, but unless you’ve got ideas for how to talk to him about this without hurting him, then it isn’t helpful to me.”

He feels more than sees Madeline and Vincent exchange a long look over his head.

“You’ve got to talk to him,” Madeline reiterates. “Even if it’s difficult. Even if it’s uncomfortable and makes him briefly unhappy. Like it or not, you have to communicate.”

“Try this.” Vincent is looking at him with an unusually serious expression. “After telling him your concerns and the changes you want, ask him what would help him. Maybe he’ll keep blowing you off and doing the silent-mystery thing, but it’s possible that after you’re open and honest with him, he’ll be willing to reciprocate.” He looks pleased with himself as he flags down a server to order another trio of drinks.

“Be quick about it this time,” he says after repeating their orders, earning himself sharp looks from both of them.

“How dare he not recognize that one of his customers is Prince D’Armino.”

“I think I’ve been really patient tonight. Don’t I _ever_ get any credit for my good behavior?”

Brett grants him a smile. “Actually, you’ve helped me quite a bit. Both of you,” he adds. “I can’t promise I’m going to give you any updates on how things go because I need to protect his privacy, but at least I have a few ideas now.”

—

His intention is to wait a few days before talking to Eddy. He figures he needs time to think things through, to come up with the right words, and to prepare for any number of reactions. Most of all, he needs time to prepare himself for the possibility of hurting Eddy, which is the last thing he wants to do -- necessary or not.

But then Eddy is waiting by the front door when he arrives home, his eyes wide, his face pale. “There you are,” he says, his hands twisting together. “I didn’t realize you’d be out so late tonight. Not that you have to tell me how late you plan to be out with your friends,” he adds, frowning. “You don’t have to report to me. I’m just, I was…”

Brett sighs as he unloads his belongings onto the table. “I’m sorry you were worried,” he says. “How was your day?”

“Okay, okay.” Eddy follows him into the kitchen as Brett fills a glass with water and watches as he drinks. “Just the usual stuff for me. I worked a little more on my composition, but I can play that for you tomorrow if you want. I mean, if you have time. If not, it can wait.”

“Of course I’ll have time. I have the next two days off, except for practicing, and we’ll have plenty of time to spend together.”

“Really?” Eddy brightens about a dozen degrees. “What about now? Do you want to play together now?”

Brett shakes his head. “Not right now. I’m tired, and it’s been a long day. And a long week. And actually—” He frowns. This wasn’t the plan, but his mouth runs ahead of both his head and his heart.

“Actually what?” Eddy looks worried again, his hands threading together, his face a study of anxiety.

“Nothing,” Brett says. “I mean, it can wait. It’s not a big deal. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“No.” Eddy looks like he’s about to be sick. “If it’s something, please tell me now. I can’t wait until tomorrow.”

Brett mentally kicks himself for mentioning it at all. He blames the alcohol, which was entirely Vincent’s fault, except for the part where he actually did the drinking. “It’s not a big deal,” he says with as much nonchalance as he can muster. “It’s just that when I get home — I’d really appreciate it if I could have an hour or two to myself. You know, to relax and decompress. And then we can have dinner, work on our duets, talk, watch movies, whatever. I just need a little time, first.”

“Oh.” Eddy’s expressive face hides nothing, and it’s filled with something Brett hadn’t anticipated: shame. “Of course you do,” he adds softly. “I’m sorry.” He takes a step back, shoulders slumped.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Brett replies in a rush, feeling like the worst sort of scum, a roving puppy-kicking mustache-twirling villain. “You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just, just me. And it really isn’t a big deal.”

Eddy nods, his gaze on the wall behind Brett.

“I meant for this to be more of a discussion than me just telling you,” Brett continues, his voice going a little unsteady. “I’m really sorry I brought it up now. I should have waited.”

Eddy is already shaking his head before Brett can finish the words. “No, you’re right to tell me. I worry about how much of your life I’ve taken over.” His voice goes quivery towards the end, but his eyes remain dry.

“Okay,” Brett replies. “But like I said. A discussion. I’ve been wondering.” He pauses to draw in a quick breath. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel more comfortable here?”

Eddy’s shamed expression gives way to disbelief. “What? No, no, no. You’ve done so much. Allowing me to stay here, and giving me a key, and adding locks to your door, and practically turning your living room into a bedroom for me…” Now he’s blinking, fighting back tears. “You’ve already done so much for me.”

Brett moves a little closer, frowning. “When I get home,” he presses. “Before I take some time for myself — would it help if we sat down and spent a few minutes talking about our days first? I don’t mind. If there’s things you want to hear, or things you need to tell me…”

Eddy shakes his head again. “We can talk about that stuff over dinner. If you want time to yourself when you get home, you should take that right away. I’ll find other things to do. You don’t need to worry about me.” He wipes at his eyes beneath his glasses and makes a Herculean effort to pull himself back together.

“I do worry about you, though. I’m a really good worrier. It’s one of my best talents, remember?” He was hoping for a laugh, but instead Eddy continues sniffling. 

Brett waits another minute before trying again, softer this time. “What can I do?”

Eddy clears his throat a few times, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “Can I have a hug?”

Brett isn’t sure that anyone has ever been more vulnerable in front of him before. It makes his heart aches and his stomach clench and his face twist into whatever the hell it’s doing. “Of course,” he manages, stepping closer and opening his arms. “Come here.”

Eddy folds against him, his arms wrapping tightly around Brett’s midsection, his face pressing against his shoulder. Brett does his best to soothe him, rubbing his back and murmuring reassuring sounds into his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I just really want to work things out so that we can keep getting better.”

“It’s okay,” Eddy says in a strained voice just before the last threads of his self-control snap and he cries brokenly against Brett’s neck.


	8. Chapter 8

Brett goes to bed worried he’s ruined everything, but after laying awake most of the night he wakes the next morning to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. When he stumbles sleepily into the kitchen, there’s already a steaming mug ready for him.

“Good morning,” Eddy greets from across the room, where he’s seated on the futon and taking notes in his composition book. He seems tired but calm -- as if poison has been drained from his system, leaving him a bit worn down but serene. 

They enjoy Brett’s days off together, and the time passes with surprising speed. Between their separate practice sessions, playing together, gaming, eating, and taking walks for more bubble tea, the days are over almost as soon as they begin and Brett is left wondering how it’s even possible to feel so comfortable with a roommate.

When he returns to work he worries that the problems will return, but after greeting Brett at the door with a long silent hug, Eddy heads off to read manga while Brett takes time for himself. He completes a few chores, works on the section of his solo that’s been giving him trouble, then takes a leisurely shower before joining Eddy for dinner. By now, their routines are cozy and familiar: food, followed by washing up together while Eddy provides terrible puns, then a few hours playing violin together, then time in front of the television watching anime.

It’s a state of flow that Brett previously only experienced while playing music, and being able to share that with another person still leaves him amazed, even after months of togetherness.

—

Although he specifically told his friends he was unlikely to update them on Eddy’s situation, he decides to share a little with Madeline over a hurried mid-week lunch. It’s somewhat of a violation of Eddy’s privacy, but he decides he really needs someone to discuss things with — at least in broad terms — and Madeline has never given him a reason to distrust her. 

“I talked with him, and he understood,” he reports while picking at his food. “He felt bad about, I don’t know, not being able to read my mind I guess, but things are better now.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.” Madeline beams. “Communication is great, isn’t it? My life got so much better once I decided to start trying it.”

He hoists his coffee cup and waits for her to clink with him before taking a sip. “It’s a shame we can’t communicate entirely through music, but yeah. There’s something to be said for the straightforwardness of words.”

Madeline sighs, her eyes going dreamy. “Sometimes I wish I was dating another musician. Is it as great as it sounds, being able to play together all the time and talk about music and discuss your favorite composers and—”

“We’re not dating.” Brett sets his cup down with a clunk. 

“Oh yeah, I know,” she offers breezily. “You skipped that whole step and went straight to living together, which — if he’s as great as you think he is — is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard.”

Brett shakes his head. “We’re friends, and roommates. But to answer your question — it’s pretty great. We’ve got so much in common, and even the difficult things aren’t really so bad.”

She arches a brow and looks like she wants to say something, but apparently the look on his face compels her to keep it to herself. 

\--

He’s aware of how it appears, of course.

Sometimes he imagines an outsider observing the life he and Eddy share. Looking at it from another vantage point, it would be almost impossible not to take them for a couple. 

When he returns home in the evenings, Eddy is waiting to greet him with a hug that lasts far longer than hugs usually shared between friends, especially friends who have only been parted for a few hours. Brett doesn’t mind. He enjoys contact with Eddy, and takes pleasure in the fact that Eddy seems to gather strength from physical touch that’s not a bro-hug but not exactly sexual or romantic, either. 

He puts their physical contact in a different, undefined category, but he’s also aware that an outsider would be snickering over his denial. 

And as the weeks pass, his need for time to himself steadily diminishes. For the first few days, he takes a full two hours before reuniting with Eddy for dinner. That time shrinks to ninety minutes, then finally ends up being less than an hour, especially when he realizes that Eddy has no problem sitting and listening silently while he practices. He offers feedback when Brett requests it but otherwise, he simply listens. Brett never imagined he’d find someone he felt comfortable sharing the nitty-gritty often-ugly aspects of practice with, but here he is. 

On a few rare occasions, Eddy interrupts his after-work personal time. Brett leaves his bedroom door open, because he wants to make sure Eddy knows he isn’t being cut off entirely. A few times, it’s a simple question about dinner or something equally mundane, addressed and done within seconds. Once, Eddy comes crashing into Bret’s room hyperventilating and wild-eyed, lingering in the doorway while looking at him in pleading silence.

“Come here,” Brett says, patting the bed beside himself. He wraps his arms around his friend and pulls him close while waiting for Eddy to settle. It’s the first time they’ve cuddled in bed together, but Brett does his best not to think too much of it. Eddy is upset, Brett is comforting him, and that’s all there is to it. Friends do this sort of thing for each other. It’s not a big deal.

Brett holds him until the shivers stop coursing through his body and his heartrate returns to normal. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddy says when he can talk again. “I know this is still your time.”

“Hush. If you need me, it doesn’t matter. You can always come in here if you need me.”

The look of gratitude on Eddy’s face is nearly enough to end him. 

If anyone else were looking in, they’d probably assume the two of them were in love.

—

Their caring relationship isn’t entirely one-sided, either.

Brett has a tendency to overexert himself, pushing beyond what his body can handle. It isn’t that he’s frail, exactly, but when he lets things slide it can set off a cascading slide of consequences. If he forgets to eat, he gets headaches; the headaches make sleep difficult, leaving him light-headed and disconnected; his lack of connection leads to silly mistakes, like burning himself in the kitchen or tripping over the last few stairs. 

When Eddy realizes what’s going on he starts making certain that Brett gets up when his alarm goes off, giving him time to eat breakfast before heading out the door. He stuffs fruit and granola bars into Brett’s knapsack, reminding him to eat at regular times and to drink water when he does. Brett is torn between irritation at being treated like a child and melting over Eddy’s thoughtfulness and sweetness.

Truthfully, he’s not irritated. But it makes him feel better to play that up a little. Safer. Because as happy as he is, part of him recognizes that this whole situation isn’t likely to end well and he’s not sure how he’ll be able to handle the heartbreak if he doesn’t hold back a few parts of himself.

Holding back becomes even more challenging when Eddy’s care turns physical, like when they’re playing a difficult passage and Brett’s right hand suddenly locks up. He stops, repressing a cry, and might have dropped his violin if Eddy hadn’t been there to intervene.

“Give me your hand,” he demands, and Brett does so without a second thought. Instantly Eddy’s long, slim fingers are massaging it from the palm outward, hard enough to loosen the clenched muscles but not quite vigorously enough to hurt. He seems to know exactly what he’s doing, working his way from the center of Brett’s palm through each of his fingers, and to his relief the spasms pass and his hand relaxes.

“Now the other one,” Eddy insists, and Brett is feeling well enough to laugh.

“My other hand is fine.”

“I have to do the other one too. Otherwise, you’ll be out of balance. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

Brett gives him a rueful smile along with his left hand. “I didn’t realize I was in the presence of another physician. Do you think I’m gonna live, Dr Chen?”

Eddy massages his left hand with just as much care and diligence as he did the right. “I almost was, you know.”

Brett frowns, confused by Eddy’s sudden change of affect. “Almost was what?”

“Almost was a doctor.”

Brett blinks and does his best to keep the surprise off his face. “I didn’t know,” he says carefully. “How far along did you get in your studies?”

“Just about to the end. Another year and I would have been starting my residency.” 

He continues rubbing each of Brett’s fingers in turn until Brett closes his hand around Eddy’s and squeezes. “Do you want to tell me about what happened? You don’t have to,” he adds quickly. “But if you want to, I’m here to listen.”

Eddy shrugs, but allows Brett to hold his hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I never wanted to be a doctor. That’s what my parents wanted. I wanted to be a violinist, or a composer, or both, but they refused to even consider it. They told me that if I wanted their support paying for school, or any further support at all, music had to be a hobby while I focused on the real world.”

Brett winces in sympathy. “You made it pretty far, though,” he says carefully.

Eddy shrugs again. “I wanted to make them happy. And I knew they were right; a career as a doctor would be a lot more stable than trying to find work as a musician. Especially considering that they cut off my private lessons midway through high school and limited the amount of time I was allowed to practice.”

“Oh, Eddy.” Brett can understand their point of view, but the idea of so much talent and promise going to waste makes him ache.

Eddy squeezes his hand as if drawing strength from him. “So.” He draws in a breath and looks away. “One week they decided to visit me in the dorms, I’m not even sure why, just that I cracked opened the door and they were both standing there.” He pauses, and this time the pause is so long that Brett returns his hand-squeeze, hoping to encourage him.

Eventually, he does. “Unfortunately, my boyfriend was also in the room. Naked. In my bed. There… wasn’t really any cover story for that.”

Brett’s stomach drops. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. I mean, what are the odds? We were both med students, both working and studying practically every hour of every day, and the one afternoon we’d managed to find a little time for ourselves my parents just happen to show up.” He laughs, but there’s no trace of humor in it. “We had a huge fight, my parents told me that I was absolutely not allowed to be a ‘homosexual’ and I just sort of… snapped. I told them I was done doing what they wanted and from now on, I was gonna live my life for myself.”

“Good for you,” Brett says, not sure if that’s the right response but it’s definitely what he’s feeling.

Eddy shrugs. “It felt good at the time -- but then they immediately stopped paying my tuition and other fees. I suppose I could have applied for emergency loans and such but I was just so, so angry. I withdrew from school and that was that.” His eyes are dark, his breathing shallow, and a complicated array of emotion play over his expressive face.

“I’m sorry,” Brett says at last. “That sounds… really tough.”

Eddy looks away from him. “It got tougher,” he says, his voice thin. “But I don’t want to talk about this any more right now. Is it okay if we stop talking?”

“Yes.” Brett pulls him close, and for once Eddy actively resists for a moment before allowing himself to be drawn into Brett’s arms. Eventually he relaxes a bit, resting his head in the crook of Brett’s neck, but Brett can feel the tension in his body. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he whispers, but Eddy doesn’t respond.


End file.
